that's mrs. mediocrity to you

like rose petals

.

one for me

one for you

one for them

one for us

.

grateful

.

may your heart

and your table

be full

.

xoxo

.

.

.

some days you have to cut off a limb
just to force new growth

prune out the broken bits and
wait for them to form fresh skin

cover old wounds
and choose the right spot
for opening veins

none of it makes you less whole

less beautiful

less valuable

your resilience is your strength

gathering force from every

misstep

mistook

wear your scars like a badge
of adornment

reach for the sky
with wide open arms

the stars will fall into
your humble embrace

and you will refuse
to hold them

their light on your skin
is always
enough

and release is the salve
of time’s flight

.

.

.

.

sometimes

letting go

really is

the best

option

.

.

.

all prettied up and fancy plaited

and already I’m cowering inside

with an old woman’s bones

for company

.

an hour to the west

mother nature has unleashed

a winter’s worth of snow

and i keep thinking she’s trying

to tell us something

or punishing us

like naughty children for sassing her

all summer

.

these autumn mornings

wear all the wrong colors

and i drink tea that tastes

of endings

.

.

.

.

a tunnel of words
brambled tight and bunched pretty
blocking the straight line
shortest path

and isn’t that always the way

flight holding up
a mirror
of freedom

while the simple branch

extended as an offering
of comfort

goes unnoticed

these wings
always itching to soar

defying the gravity
of cracked calloused
talon

weaving labyrinth and lace
into a ripe ruffled tapestry
of circuitous
reflection

.

.

.

.

happens every so often

even in

an imperfect

life

.

I walk outside after dark and smell the crisp cool of November, the month of birthdays and decay, reflection and gratitude.

Color bleeds from this month in a endless stream of fade. It makes me sad, a little, but also soothes some part of my heart that believes in the comfort of grey, a neutral landscape to paint with words and possibility.

I was born in this month of thanks-giving, so I suppose it’s no coincidence that it holds my favorite holiday.

There is always something to be grateful for.

I breathe this in as a daily reminder.

There were no stars visible in the sky last night, low clouds rolling through on their way to someplace colder, wishing to be relieved of the weight they carry.

But I know, by my horizon, where the North Star hides, the only constant in a world that’s always moving.

Winter’s wife, singing him home.

.

.

.

the path is predetermined by the seed and the soil
and climate’s complete lack of benevolence

a straight line leads only to infinity
and so we are faced with sharp corners

zigs that zag through uncut forest
fallow field
the vagary of mountain

and you can look for the signs

proof of possibility

your only reward for getting it right

but just this morning
one lone leaf was pointing at orion
and tomorrow
it will tumble
through wet sky

.

.

.

.

the ghost of a bloom

holds the seed

of survival

.

.

.

.

the man in the moon
has always been woman

crone shaped and goddess curved
skin pocked with wisdom

hiding coy in the disguise
of sun’s darkest shadow

the stories she whispers aren’t meant to be heard

but rather

inhaled

bathed in

whirled to

and some nights she goes mad in the space between beats

as the music over echoes
the pounding labyrinth of steps

stretching out behind us
in a field filled with stones

circled by the forest growing through
our mother’s bones

white-silver ghosts

swaying hand in hand

round the fire

of eternity’s remembrance

.

.

.

{for Mary Ellen}